


Something in the air!

by Angel-without-wings-sew (John_lockian), John_lockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Facials, First Kiss, First Time for Everything Fest, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft and Greg Getting it on in a tent, Mycroft in a tent!, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, mystrade, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 01:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11933898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_lockian/pseuds/Angel-without-wings-sew, https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_lockian/pseuds/John_lockian
Summary: For both Mycroft and Lestrade, it has been a long dry spell relationship wise.John and Sherlock?  They were still running in circles trying to make the first move.With some fresh air and the right circumstances, maybe everything will just fall into place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will first say....  
> I am not a professional writer, in fact, I am definitely a novice who just enjoys writing. I'm sure there are mistakes, even though I have tried to remedy as many as possible. But this work is un beta'd.
> 
> If you enjoy it, please leave me Kudos, and a comment if only to say Hi! 
> 
> Also feel free to come say hi on Tumblr... I am Angel-without-wings-sew. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading x

Mycroft, you can do what you want with the money. Mummy and Daddy left the fund to you to manage. So, you get to make the difficult decisions... which if we're being honest, you like to do anyway - and I get to stay away from all the boring get-togethers that you love to arrange."

 

Sherlock, pouting like a spoilt two-year-old, almost stamped his foot for emphasis after finishing the tirade. He hated these ‘family financial’ talks… what the hell did it matter? Their parents were gone, there was always a long line of people queuing for donations. Begging letters no longer read - were dealt with by admin. Too many people in the world needed money.

 

Mycroft looked over at John sitting in his armchair, trying desperately to get support from somewhere. He raised his eyes at John with that, ‘please John, for God sake help me out here’ look.

 

John was barely able to conceal his laughter at the brother’s spat. He tried to nod in sympathy - but it was a half-hearted effort at best. Mycroft probably realised, that no support would be coming from that direction today.

 

Changing tack, Mycroft tried to appeal to John’s caring side.

 

"Doctor Watson... John...” He tried a smile. Which was half smile half grimace? “Could you please have a word with your partner here? It is vital that he comes along to the awards ceremony. I cannot possibly do everything alone. And it is, of course, what Mummy and Daddy wanted. It’s only once a year John."

 

Mycroft was seething, fake smile still plastered to his face - but John picked up an underlying feeling of helplessness, of resignation.

 

"Mycroft, we'll talk about it when you've gone. We have a few weeks yet, haven’t we?"

 

John knew that whilst Mycroft was in the room, there was no way Sherlock would back down. These brothers were like dogs with a bone. Neither would give in without a fight - and a messy fight at that. Tension still filled the air and John would be glad to have some positive energy back in the room.

 

Mycroft turned on his heels, tapping his umbrella down sharply on the floor.

 

"Thank you, John. Sherlock, I await your response when you have come to your senses."

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away to study the fireplace.

 

 

 

The Holmes brothers had lost their parents five years ago, to an accident. It had been sudden, shocking, but as mostly absent parents. Life didn’t actually change that much for the two boys. The years went by as usual but without the terrible family Christmas.

 

At the will reading, they'd discovered the clause stating that, in order for the boys to continue living off the estate, and its substantial sums of money, then each year they were to decide on a charity or a worthwhile cause. The boys were to hold a presentation evening (which would highlight this cause) and then present a check for £250,000. Other guidelines were set in place, and each year the family solicitor would sign off on the plans ensuring the directives were met.

 

Mycroft had no need of his parent’s money. He would live quite comfortably on the money he'd already made from his government role. But Sherlock had little financial sense. He would quite happily work for nothing if he felt it worthwhile. Mycroft hated the thought of his ancestral assets being sold off at auction, the profits of which would just swell the government's coffers. Therefore the instructions were carried out to the letter, ensuring continuity of the Holmes estate and fortune.

 

Sherlock had gone along for the first two events. He had refused to take an active part in any of the organisation. He had refused to present the award and had, more or less, hidden most of the evening, in fact, he might as well not have been there at all. He had not attended the last two; he had been ‘away’. Since returning, Mycroft had asked him to suggest a cause, and make the award on behalf of their parents. He had helped Sherlock with his plan, to escape the clutches of the assassins. Had understood it, but he had been there to see the damage it had caused John, Greg and Mrs Hudson. It was he who had to keep such massive secrets. So, be damned if the little brother didn’t owe him a big favour.

 

Sherlock, of course, ever ready to disagree with his brother, and uncomfortable at every point with large stuffy get-togethers, had come up with reason after reason as to why he couldn’t possibly attend.

 

It had been John who had suggested the RIPO Charity - the fund for the respite for Inured police officers, a worthwhile cause and always desperate for injections of cash. Sherlock had suggested it to Mycroft - but had adamantly declined the offer to present the award.

 

After Mycroft, had left, Sherlock sat on the sofa and sulked. His knees pulled up under his chin, his arms around them grasped at the hands.

 

"John, I hate these stuffy events - trying to please people I really don’t like, and who I have nothing in common with. And I’ll have to get a new suit. I really haven’t time to get to the tailor."

 

John chuckled, "Oh... to be you. I wish sometimes that the only thing I had to worry about was whether to get a new suit or not."

 

"Well, you do!" Sherlock snapped - and then looked a little sheepish. "Sorry, I know you don’t care about these things. You will wear any suit and not worry. But if I turn up in a suit that isn’t deemed perfect, Mycroft will not stop patronizing my lack of style for the next millennium."

 

"Erm… I’m not going. So, I don’t need a suit anyway, but you-you'll be fine, you have a dozen excellent suits and not one of them would embarrass you. I’m sure Mycroft doesn’t keep track of your wardrobe changes Sherlock." John said, doing his best to sound reassuring but not patronizing. John secretly loved these conversations.

 

Sherlock was a true drama queen. John often expected him to lie on the ground and kick his legs in the air like an overwrought toddler. Underneath the histrionics, John saw both man and boy in battle, fear and adventure, sadness and joy, responsibility and a distinct lack of care. Every time Sherlock did anything it was as though a battle raged within. Most people just saw the recalcitrant side of Sherlock – rude, unfeeling, blunt. John, however, had learnt that these were but a mask to the feelings he didn’t know how to deal with.

 

Sherlock looked at John for a moment, digesting his words, lack of comprehension visible on his face. He then said, almost haughtily, "Oh, John... I was invited. This means you, of course, are invited too. We work together. We live together. We must do this together… or I definitely won’t go!"

 

Sherlock smirked.

 

John knew this was already a lost battle - and he knew better than to argue. In fact, in this case, he didn’t even feel the need. He liked to be with Sherlock, and he rarely got to truly socialise with him. When Sherlock really relaxed, it was like, he shed his armour and the giggling fun person came to the fore.

 

"Well, if that’s the case, Sherlock, then I'll need a suit too! I’m afraid that my suits have seen better days… and in fact, I don’t think I can remember ever owning a decent dinner jacket. At least one that will pass muster with your crowd."

 

John stared at Sherlock, waiting for the reply that would signal round two.

 

He didn’t care about the snobbery and etiquette of these upper-class functions. He wasn’t fazed at all by airs and graces, comfortable in his own skin. As a doctor and an ex-soldier, he was intelligent and could hold his own in almost any conversation, even if he didn’t ‘speak the Queen's English’. He would go, if he was invited, and enjoy a good free meal and unlimited champagne. The fact that Sherlock would look fantastic in his black tie – yeah, that! Well, that was a bonus. It looked like now, at least he could use his presence to make Sherlock attend, keeping Mycroft happy too.

 

Sherlock sighed. John had an unerring talent for making him believe that he's got his own way when he secretly understood that John had been calling the shots from the outset. He realised he had no other option.

 

"Okay… then we shall go to the tailor tomorrow. In fact, I believe Graham has an appointment with the tailor too. We could arrange to meet up."

 

"Who the hell is Graham? And, erm... I can’t afford a bespoke suit. It will be rental for me."

 

"Don’t be a fool, John. If we're being forced to attend this ridiculous event, then Mycroft will be footing the bill for us to look presentable, and the tailor will expedite our order if we purchase in Mycroft’s name. And Graham - how can you forget him? You've mentioned him a dozen times today. Are you not feeling well?" Sherlock peered closely at John, about to check his brow for fever when John knocked his hand away.

 

"Oh, okay. You mean Greg, Greg Lestrade. You know his name, Sherlock. I’m sure you do this to wind me up, as well as him – I didn’t realise he'd be attending. It won’t be all that stuffy after all. He and I will lower the tone for England." John giggled at the thought.

 

Sherlock smirked again. "Well no, at least it won’t all be stuffy old men and women... Lestrade is accepting the award on behalf of the charity."


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

The strain was taking its toll, the man at the desk carded his silver hair roughly with his fingers, as he glanced over at the paperwork he still had to start. Oh, for fuck’s sake. It never ends.

 

The room was squalid, peeling paint, the desk looked like it had been repurposed from a teacher’s desk fifty years before. His chair? It seemed he didn’t even warrant a decent ergonomic chair, which he felt, that considering the amount of time he sat in it, and the times he had been injured in the line of duty, was the last thing he could have been offered.

 

He moved his chair out smacking into the bin that sent days worth of waste paper over the floor…. “Shit, shit, shit! He said and kicked the hopeless chair”

 

“Ah hum”

 

Greg started as he heard the polite sound of someone trying to get his attention from the door. As he turned he blushed to the roots of his hair.

 

“Ah, Mr Holmes. Sorry about that! It’s one of these days”

 

“I see the chair has offended you greatly Detective Inspector”

 

 

 

“It’s a poor excuse for a bloody chair, my back is killing me. This place is a shit tip. Twenty bloody years and this – he waved his arms over the office- this is what I have come to. “

 

Greg Sighed, then blushed again.

 

“Shall we start again? What can I do for you? I would offer you coffee? But to be honest it’s Like dishwater… I’m embarrassed to offer it to anyone!”

 

Mycroft was amused at this tirade, he had never seen the man so… perturbed... by anything… he had watched him on occasion, seen him deal with death and the grieving with such empathy and professionalism, to see him so upset with these trifles was - interesting.

 

“Well, I won’t be stressing you out I hope, just a few minutes of your time?”

 

He looked for somewhere to sit, then shrugged and remained standing.

 

“As you know the RIPO charity is being presented with a cheque from my family’s trust. I have been asked if you would accept the cheque on behalf of them? I…  I won’t go into everything right now, if you don’t mind, maybe when you have time, if you have time, we could meet for a coffee? I can give you all the details then?”

Mycroft would have added that he would not mind sitting down to discuss the plans for the event. But didn’t feel that adding insult to injury at this point would be acceptable.

 

Greg smiled warmly, the skin crinkling around his eyes as he did so.

 

“Oh yes, of course, I was told you would be asking me, it. It would be a privilege. I would be happy to do it, thank-you. When would you like to meet? This week I am fairly tied up. You, you’re not free later are you? I just need to sign off this paperwork I will be free by seven. – Of course, I realise that’s short notice. Just that there’s a few off work next week and for the first time in forever, I have an almost full diary next week. Greg, smiled inwardly, he needed an excuse to get through the paperwork and would take whatever distraction came his way.

 

Mycroft smiled slightly, as he thought back over their conversation, interesting man, quite compelling……. “Yes of course Inspector, I have nothing at all planned for this evening, shall I have a car pick you up? You could come over to the Diogenes club, we could have a drink and maybe a bite to eat if you won’t have time to eat first?”

 

“Well, yes, I’ll pop home first, get my glad rags on… it’s a date…” Greg stopped mid-sentence, blushing furiously. “Oh- I mean… I didn’t mean….”

 

“It’s fine inspector, I will have my car collect you at your home at 7 pm” With that Mycroft turned on his heels and was gone, leaving a bemused Greg in his wake.

 

As Mycroft left the building he punched a number into his phone “Anthea, dear, cancel my meetings tonight, something has come up, rearrange them please.” He smiled.

 

He wasn’t sure what it was about Greg that enchanted him. He was certainly a fine-looking man. His hair, prematurely silver, but he fell into the category of silver fox, he looked strong and handsome in that rugged down to earth way. He looked forward to their meeting later. Much more satisfying than meeting with the stuffed shirts at MI5 for the regular update

 

 

 

 

 

Greg had never felt so willing to get stuck into the paperwork. Dinner with Mr Holmes at a nice club. Not often he got to do anything like that. He was, of course, grateful for the cash injection going to the fund, he had lost many officers to illness or injury, some had never been able to return to the force. He had seen first hand how they suffered financially. Being able to get away with their loved one, get some treatment in too, well that was a win-win. He would be proud to take the cheque, and hey, might even be fun.

 

He found himself considering Mycroft. He was one of those people everyone seemed to know about, someone that popped up on the periphery at regular intervals. Everybody seemed concerned not to cross him, but no one seemed to know exactly what he did.

 

Greg found his mind wandering to the man’s physical characteristics. He was tall, taller than himself and Sherlock. Stockier, but not fat, muscular maybe, more so than Sherlock who was definitely on the skinny side, He wondered what was under that suit. He imagined pale skin to go with his red hair. What the fuck…. He needed to get laid…

 

 

 

By 7 pm, Greg was washed, and dressed, a little of the cologne he had been given by his ex when she had, had her last affair. It was a guilt offering but hey was good stuff so no way he was going toss it. In fact, Greg used it often when he went on dates or out with the guys, he felt a bit like it was giving her the finger.

 

His doorbell rang, and it was only then that Greg realised that he had never even given Mycroft his address. Hmmm, he would have to ask him about that. Without further ado, he left into the warm air of the early evening and eased himself into the waiting car.

 

“Good evening Inspector, the traffic is light, so it shouldn’t take us too long to get to the Diogenes, Please, help yourself to a drink if you would like.” The driver pointed out the onboard fridge.

 

Greg found himself suddenly nervous. He reached for a bottle of water from the fridge, taking a long deep draught. His mind wandered over the day’s events, and before he realised it, the car had pulled up and the door was opening for him.

 

“Thankyou erm ??”

 

“Thomas sir, Just call me Thomas. You’re welcome”

 

Greg nodded as he walked into the foyer of the prestige club. He was shown quickly to a large room, it was opulence at its best. Beautiful oak panelled walls bordered, a plush dark red carpet. The large window framed the man who he had come to see, presently sat at his desk finishing a call.

 

“Sorry, I might be early, would you like me to wait outside?” Greg wasn’t sure about the protocol about being present during an official call. He knew that he himself regularly kicked officers out of his office when taking an important call.

 

“No, not at all Inspector, I have finished now, we won’t be disturbed further. Please, would you like me to take your coat?”

 

Greg slipped out of his heavy woollen overcoat, It had been really too warm for his coat, but his mac had seen better days, and his Jackets wouldn’t have been dressy enough.

 

“I took the opportunity of ordering a small spread, Cheese, meat, some bread etc. I wasn’t sure what you would like, and I am partial to finger food.” Mycroft left the statement hanging, it sounded almost salacious the way he had said, it and he was interested to see how Greg would react.

 

“That does for me Mr Holmes, I’m not frightened of getting sticky fingers.”, had he really said that? The man would think he was an idiot or an aged rent boy.

 

“Well, it’s just been laid out over here by the sofas if you would care to join me? What would you like to drink? I have a bottle of red here, some white in the chiller, or I can get anything in here that you would rather have?” Mycroft dithered over the details, which amused Greg somewhat….

 

“White wine for me, this food is too nice to drink beer with!” Greg’s stomach grumbled loudly as he surveyed the spread, which was more akin to a banquet for half a dozen. Mycroft, it seemed has covered all his bases.

 

Greg sat down on the edge of the sofa, helping himself to a plate then piling it high with food, before looking abashed… “Oh… hope you don’t mind… I’m starving….”

 

Mycroft had placed a select few items on his plate much to Greg’s amusement. A beautiful linen napkin spread over his knee. “Please, eat it all, or… I can have the waiter box the leftovers for you… it will only be thrown away… “

 

The two ate in companionable silence for a while, give or take the groans of delight coming from Greg…

 

Mycroft watched with delight as Greg tucked in, the sounds coming from the man were an added bonus, as Greg looked up, he neutralized his expression… “All ok?” Mycroft asked?

 

Greg, just nodded, not sure how Mycroft would feel if he were to try to bestow the virtues of the delicacies he was eating without swallowing first….

 

Jesus, what was wrong with him today…This is a bloody business meeting and here I am having very unprofessional thoughts….

 

Mycroft filled Greg’s glass again. Oh, to let the mind wander a little… He found himself wondering about the man, he could spot the sexual chemistry. Safe bet he was Bisexual then. But would he ever be amenable to a little more than flirting…. Always such a big gamble. At times like this, he hated his profession, his position in life. He had seen a great many men fall at the hands of their hormones. A kiss and tell a story could cut a man down in a day. But a man who also had so much to lose…. Surely that would be a safer bet? Especially one as gorgeous as this…

 

 

 

As both men sat back sated, Mycroft produced a manila folder from an adjoining table…. “Here are the details of the award and ceremony. Is… is there anyone you would like to bring? I can arrange a plus one invite for you?” The words almost stuck In Mycroft’s throat but he felt the need to ask anyway, his formal upbringing, never far below the surface…

 

 

 

“Nah, I… I’m single…” Greg added… “Not happily so, ya know, gets lonely sometimes… but no, I have no one I would bring…”

 

Greg took the envelope, casting his eyes over the details for the event….

 

“Inspector, as a thank you for your time? Will you allow me to supply your wardrobe for the evening? I have an excellent tailor. Mycroft, looked away slightly not wanting to see a rejection from the man who sat in front of him.

 

“A suit? Ah, mine probably won’t pass the test huh?” Greg continued, licking his lips slowly. “Well, it’s your money… and… I don’t want to embarrass you, or the department.”

 

“You, Detective Inspector, could never embarrass me, I just thought…. Well, I just thought it would be nice for you.” Mycroft blushed at his outburst... did he care that much what this man thought of him? He smiled... “Oh just humour me. Inspector!”

 

 

 

Later that night when Greg sat alone on his bed, ready to turn in, he ran the conversations over in his head. Hmmm, it had been - nice – more than nice – spending time with the great Holmes. Greg felt a little quiver of excitement. Would he ever? What? With him? Who was he kidding, Mycroft probably had a list of ‘escorts’ a mile long.

 

 

 

Greg felt himself slip into fantasy. His tired mind giving in to the demands of his hormone-addled cock. As his hand held the weight of his erection, he imagined that it was Mycroft who held him, his breath quickened. He lost himself to the fantasy of Mycroft Holmes wanking him slowly to orgasm. Just the way he liked it, a firm grip, long slow movements, speeding as orgasm drew nearer, a slick thumb over the head collecting pre-come. Greg gasped out in orgasm, and whilst shivering in the post-climactic euphoria, he imagined Mycroft rubbing his back, whispering in his ear.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Sitting in the tailors, John and Greg were in high spirits, attested to, by the disapproving looks they received from some of the other patrons waiting on service within the prestigious establishment.

While Sherlock stood on the plinth for measuring, John and Lestrade sat making lewd comments about the measuring procedure. Sherlock blushed, then promised John that he would be sorry and that he would ensure the tailor would take extra measurements for him!

John snapped his mouth closed, squirming uncomfortably. He'd forgotten it was his turn next. The fact was, John was in awe of Sherlock’s body, he had seen most of it, in parts, when stitching or cleansing wounds. But even fully clothed, Sherlock’s long lithe form was - well it did things to him… Watching now, well, he was really looking forward to seeing him in this suit. He would look divine. The tailor looked like he could indeed take very precise measurements. He found himself envious for a moment, watching as the tailor's fingers skimmed over Sherlock’s form.  _How different things could have been if they both got past the move,_  he blushed as he caught Sherlock looking at him, he smiled.  _Could Sherlock read these thoughts?_

 

John turned to Greg who had been trying to get their attention.  

 

“Anyone fancy a coffee after this? There’s a nice café further up the road, and they do a lovely chocolate cake.” At the sound of cake, Sherlock suddenly started paying more attention to the conversation. “Cake is always a good idea Greg!” Sherlock smiled widely, making the other two men set off in fits of giggles again, much to Sherlock's disdain.

The measuring didn’t take long, they had been squeezed in as an appointment, and the tailor was in a hurry - so it was all business. All measurements were taken efficiently, without further innuendo about the inseam or the seat. Before long John, Sherlock and Greg headed off to Leandro’s only three doors up.

 

As they walked in, it was fairly busy, and most of the tables were taken. Sherlock made a beeline for a window table. The woman there was just strapping her baby into his pushchair. There was a young couple waiting patiently for the seat. But Sherlock sat, smiled at the woman and told her what a beautiful child she had -  _Who said he hadn’t got tact? There was no way he was going to tell her that she needed to learn how to use a handkerchief to remove the snot from the child’s nose, and a wash of his face wouldn’t go amiss._ She beamed at him…

The couple stood for a moment in stunned silence as Sherlock took the table they were waiting for. “Erm, excuse me. We were waiting for this table the man said in a rough indignant voice”.

Sherlock put on his best scathing smile. Nodded, and said “well if you want to wait for this one, in particular, we will be about an hour, you might be better to choose one of the other tables. Oh, and by the way, you would have been better off choosing the hot chocolate skinny, and leaving the cake. I think you will find that by the look your companion gave you when looking at your plate, and the fact that she then looked over your proportions, she definitely doesn’t go for the chubby type.Sherlock turned away, ignoring the stunned comments from the couple as they deftly moved away to a far corner.

 

“John? Greg? What are we having?”

 

The two men looked at Sherlock.

 

“Bit not good that, Sherlock,” John said gently, then the two men were laughing, at Sherlock as he tried to work out what he had said to elicit such a response.

 

Greg brought over a tray with pots of tea, coffee and more slices of cake than men at the table.

 

Greg tapped his fork on the tray…. “Don’t you say anything, Sherlock, if you mention the size of my gut, I will eat yours as well.”

 

Sherlock glared. “I was just going to say you should have asked the tailor to add a few inches, Geoff, if you eat all that, you will need them.”

 

John sat back enjoying the show, He loved the way that Sherlock sparred with those around him, John secretly believed that none of this behaviour was social awkwardness, that Sherlock just used that as an excuse to be rude.

The Carrot cake was delicious, and was soon gone, which probably had a lot to do with Sherlock eating every other mouthful, from John’s fork… John said nothing. When John reached for a bit of chocolate cake however he was rewarded by a slap across his knuckles with the back of the fork.

 

 “This is mine John – you are always telling me to eat more.”

 

John laughed,

 

 “You are a cheeky git Sherlock. If I wasn’t your best friend, I would fight you to the death for the remaining cake!”

 

John smiled easily then felt a bolt of electricity up his leg as Sherlock moved his long legs, ‘accidentally’ bumping into John’s, but not accidentally, leaving it pressed close. John coughed, then smiled half to himself.  _Ok, that’s ok,_  he thought.

 

Greg grinned at the two men... So, you two, still...’just friends’ is it? Both laughed, Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but neither man spoke. Greg chuckled, but soon shut up as Sherlock started to question his love life.

 

 “And you? Who are you after this week, Greg? Do we know him?”

 

Greg spluttered, coffee and cake spraying the table…

 

 “whatever you think you know Sherlock, I think you are so wrong, there is no one in my life right now” He had turned an interesting shade of pink, which even John picked up on.

 

“Fine, but I will deduce it soon, you are as useless at covering your tracks as you are at following them”

 

Greg growled… “Fuck off Sherlock… Not this time!”

 

John stood, “come on, then before you two kill each other, let’s be off. Greg, unless there is a case, it will probably be the award when we see you next?”

 

Greg once again blushed slightly, John missed it but Sherlock did not.

 

“Sure John, looking forward to it. See you both then yeah?”

 

The two made their way back to Baker Street. “what is it that you think you know Sherlock?” John asked…” about Greg? He hasn’t said anything to me.”

 

Sherlock smirked, “Well if I didn’t know better, I would think my brother has, at last, made a move on him. He’s been interested for an age. But… well, we will see…”

 

John laughed, “Really? Greg? Is he Bi then? I heard rumours, but…”

 

“Yes John, he’s bisexual, seems to be a common occurrence with people hiding their sexuality. Now, are you making tea?”

 

John stared at Sherlock’s back… erm “yeah right tea…”  _what the hell? Does he know? Should I just come right and say it?_  Instead, John made tea then sat opened a book and pretended to read, aware of every movement Sherlock made, and aware the Sherlock was watching him too.  _What a mess._


	4. Chapter 4

Two weeks later, John and Sherlock dressed ready for the awards evening. It was early afternoon. The ceremony was due to start at six PM and the charity had insisted it be held at their local hotel, a beautiful but remote hotel in rural Hampshire. Mycroft, or to be more precise, Mycroft’s _limousine_ would be picking up Greg, then John and Sherlock, so they could all go to the award ceremony together.

As they stood in front of the mirror, fixing final touches, Sherlock looked at John, bowing his head slightly to hide his interest. Within seconds, Sherlock had taken in John’s appearance from head to shoes, cataloguing each and every curve - noticing especially where John’s suit, skimmed and hugged.

"Hmm... you scrub up well, Doctor Watson."

John blushed a little. "Yeah... I look alright, don’t I?" He added, with the same faux formality, "you look okay yourself, Mr Holmes."

Of course, he'd seen Sherlock in black tie attire before - but he was still blown away by the beauty of the man beside him. He wouldn’t disclose his feelings for Sherlock. He'd put feelers out when they first met, and Sherlock hadn’t minced his words. John was bisexual. While he'd only ever had sex with men when he was serving in the army, there'd been few men who turned his head - the odd drunken blowjob which he never wanted to take further. He couldn’t however deny his attraction to Sherlock. It wasn’t just Sherlock’s gorgeous physique - _which was probably not John’s usual type, all limbs and little meat._ It was Sherlock’s uniqueness that resonated with John, on a level he had still to work out. He saw something in Sherlock that no one else seemed to see - his vulnerability, shrouded by a cloak of fake arrogance.

John licked his lips automatically, realised his mind had wandered. He took one quick last look at himself in the mirror, then turned away.

Sherlock watched John, taking a deep steadying breath. He noted the way the expensive suit fitted like a glove. While John was several inches shorter than himself, his proportions were perfect - broad shoulders, muscular, but not overly so; a firm chest and abdomen that, while not as defined as it had probably been when John was a serving soldier, still had a visible if not prominent six-pack. The trousers fitted John especially well. John had large firm thighs, and the trousers hugged them comfortably.

_John was, simply, lovely._

Of course, he knew John was sexually interested in him. He knew John was bisexual, but he also knew that he'd refused John’s advances that night in Angelo’s. Sherlock guessed that as a proud man, John wouldn’t make the first move again. Sherlock wasn’t a virgin. He'd had a few dalliances at university, but they had left him feeling bored and disinterested in sex. Now a quick wank in the shower usually sufficed in keeping his hormones in check.

However, he must admit that since John had moved back to 221B, he'd been masturbating rather more frequently than he ever had before - even in his adolescence, when it had been rather a novelty that allowed him to conduct several new experiments.

Yes - he knew that if he was to pursue John in a romantic or sexual way, he would have to work for it. He just didn’t know how, and he didn’t like not knowing.

"Mycroft's car is downstairs, John... shall we go?"

When they got to the limo, Mycroft was bashing at his phone - obviously perturbed by something.

"Oh, bloody hell…" he decried. "Gregory has been tied up at an incident. He’s only just finished and we cannot wait any longer. It simply won't do for the hosts to be delayed. I told him I'd send a car for him... but tonight of all nights, three cars in the fleet are out of action. All the others bar this one are busy. He's going to have to drive himself over."

John smirked. He rarely heard Sherlock or Mycroft swear. It always caught him by surprise. "Mycroft, Lestrade drives all the time… he can manage to get himself to Hampshire!"

Mycroft looked at John as though he was being preposterous.

"That’s not the _point,_ John. I had made arrangements! Gregory shouldn’t have to drive himself all the way there after finishing work. He'll be tired and… well, I had made arrangements."

He said this as though his plans _never_ fell through, and it was a mystery to him how it could ever have happened.

"That's me told," John muttered, wondering if the same fuss would have been made if _he'd_ missed his lift.

The rest of the journey was quiet. Sherlock and Mycroft both tapped away at their mobiles while John relaxed, helping himself to a bottle of water from the on-board fridge. John allowed himself the indulgence of thinking about Sherlock in his suit, then Sherlock out of his suit.

Feeling the gentle throbbing tightness in his trousers, he thought about dirty laundry instead - anything to try and quieten his arousal. The next fifteen minutes were spent wriggling, trying to get comfortable.

Sherlock glanced at him. "John, whatever is wrong? You're like a child who's been forced to sit still for too long."

John cast him a glare. There came a quiet sound from Mycroft, who was now smirking.

"What, Mycroft?" John snapped. "What has amused you now?"

"Well... I can tell you if you want me too," Mycroft said. His steely blue eyes, glinting with amusement, flashed towards Sherlock - who was once again engrossed in his phone.

John wasn’t paying this game right now.

"Oh, just fuck off," John snapped. He lowered his head as he blushed. How the hell did Mycroft somehow know even more than his brother?

Mycroft smirked once again, then returned to business on his phone.

Sherlock continued with his texting, whilst mulling over the little pantomime that had just played out in the car. What _had_ Mycroft noticed in John? He resisted the temptation to observe John. "Later," he thought. "Later."

The rest of the evening was very pleasant. Lestrade turned up at the venue only twenty minutes later than they did. Greg was a little crumpled, after having got dressed in the car, but to John and Sherlock’s amusement, Mycroft fussed over him like an old mother hen. Mycroft retied his bowtie, smoothed down the collar of his shirt, and eased invisible creases out of the shoulders of Greg’s suit.

John raised an eyebrow. When he glanced at Sherlock, he noticed the actions hadn’t gone unnoticed there either. They smirked at their bilateral observation - but the smirks disappeared fast when Mycroft’s icy glare caught them in the act. Greg, oblivious to the silent communication that had just surrounded him, seemed quite accepting of Mycroft’s ministrations.

The venue was lovely, black expensive flocked wallpaper, walls mirrored to the ceilings and stunning chandeliers, Mycroft certainly knew how to throw a party. The food was excellent. Mycroft rarely left anything to chance. The food was meant to impress, and of course it did. Both John and Greg, as well as the myriad of charity supporters, made the most of the delicious and expensive food. Neither of the men were poor, but neither were they frivolous. When an opportunity arose, which afforded free hospitality, especially at this level, they relished it.

The cheque presentation itself went off without a hitch. John and Sherlock drank one or two glasses of champagne more than they should, which helped Sherlock no end when he presented the cheque to Lestrade. The slight intoxication relieved him of the tension. He was even able to give a few words without insulting all and sundry, much to everyone’s relief. As Sherlock stood on stage, the hundred or so people in the room gazed at him, many with yearning eyes. Sherlock was an excellent actor. Even in moments of acute discomfort or anxiety, he was able to pull the wool over people’s eyes. Even though John knew that Sherlock felt uncomfortable on stage, he also knew that he was only one of a few people who knew of his discomfiture.

Sherlock stood with grace, his dark curls framing his handsome face. He could have been a muse for ancient Greeks carving their statues, John thought. His face was all cheekbones and angular lines - until that is you came to his mouth: soft, pink and perfect. He deserved to be in that spotlight. John felt uncomfortable again, his trousers tightening around his tumescent cock. He wriggled a little to relieve the pressure, hoping that he could get his body under control before he needed to stand. As the presentation ended, Sherlock thanked everyone for coming and turned to leave the stage - but not before he glanced in John’s direction, with a quick and hesitant smile.

"You were fine up there," he reassured Sherlock, as he came back to the table. "Everyone loved you." He chuckled. "And you've given the blue rinse brigade lots of content for some sweet dreams tonight… they were all swooning over you up there."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment - then couldn’t help himself, as he joined in laughing.

They glanced over at Mycroft, expecting a scolding - but their laughter was cut short. Mycroft and Greg were deep in conversation. Not only did Greg _not_ looked bored, but they indeed looked enraptured with each other. Once again John and Sherlock shared a glance, John smirking and giving Sherlock a cheeky wink as he nodded toward the two men engrossed in their conversation. Sherlock said in a whisper, “what did I tell you about the charming detective and my brother?” Then he shuddered as he looked away; it made John start giggling again. He felt like a teenager who'd consumed too much cider in the park late at night with his friends. And if he was being totally truthful, he felt a little envious. As he watched Sherlock saying goodnight to those he needed to speak with his minded returned to the realms of what if…

 


	5. Chapter 5

At the end of the evening, Sherlock, John and Greg made their way to the exit to where Mycroft was waiting. The three stopped short in surprise as they realised that, once again, Mycroft was indignant and bristling.

"What else can go wrong tonight?" he exclaimed, with an exasperated huff. "No bloody car! How can there be no car? Heads will roll for this." John, Sherlock and Greg, after yet more cursing, were under no illusion that he meant it. They were just grateful not to be frozen by the Iceman this time.

Mycroft refused to explain the missing car. Instead, he just stood glaring into the hotel grounds.

"Mycroft… it's okay." The sound of Greg’s comforting murmur cut through the tension. "I have my car, remember? It might not be as luxurious as yours... but at least I'll have you home tonight."

Greg’s words took the wind out of Mycroft’s sails. He visibly relaxed.

"Of course… I'd quite forgotten. Maybe fate has smiled upon us after all."

"Well, I'd feel better if I could have imbibed the free champagne... but I suppose one-night playing chauffeur won’t kill me." Greg was pleased that he'd been able to save the moment. He felt a little flutter in his stomach at Mycroft’s intense gaze.

"I can’t imagine you as a chauffeur, Greg," John laughed, "You'd lose your hat before it was on your head. And probably end up stopping every two minutes to look at the ladies."

Greg laughed, but it was an uncomfortable laugh. John blushed, realising that he'd somehow put his foot in it, surely  _Sherlock wasn’t right?_  He turned his attention to Mycroft, who was folding himself into the front passenger seat. Like his brother, Mycroft had impossibly long legs and it was quite amusing seeing him squeeze into the front seat.

"I’ll sit behind you, Mycroft - so you can move your seat back, yeah? I don’t seem to need as much space as you Holmes brothers..." Mycroft nodded absently, his attention already fixed on Greg.

John and Sherlock struggled into the back seat among the burger wrappers and empty coke tins, John smiling at the look of distaste on Sherlock’s face. They sped off into the darkness. John soon felt relaxed, confined into the small space with Sherlock close by. It wasn’t long before the effects of the champagne caught up with him and he closed his eyes, exhaled slowly and fell to sleep, his head lolling onto Sherlock’s shoulder - much to Sherlock’s amusement.

 

An hour outside of London, while driving through an unlit area of the Surrey Hills, there came a huge thump, a squealing of tires, and the slow motion feeling of being caught up in an unavoidable accident.

"What the fuck! ...Sherlock? ..."

John seemed to be the only vocal one - everyone else was waiting for the car to come to a stand-still. It took a moment for John to come to his senses, having been dreaming deeply at the moment of impact. John’s nerves had taken him to a dark place, his heart was thumping fast.

Sherlock’s hand rested on John’s arm. "We’re okay," he said calmly into John’s ear. "You’re okay, just a small bump, "Sherlock claimed John’s eyes until he saw John regain focus and calm his breathing, his hand stayed firmly on John’s arm.

"Fuck... Jesus...  _shit_ ," Lestrade said, shakily. "Is everyone okay? Mycroft, you alright? It was a deer - jumped right out in front... bloody nothing I could do..."

One by one, they got out of the car, stretched and felt their way around their sore muscles. Having recovered his nerve some, John jumped into a medical triage role. "Anyone bleeding? Shortness of breath? Any numbness in legs? Back pain?"

They ascertained that the only casualty was, in fact, the young buck that had been thrown to the side by the force of the collision. It had broken its neck on impact.

Satisfied that John wasn’t worried about injuries, Lestrade reached into the glove box for his super Maglite. Looking at the damage to the car, he groaned. Cracked window screen - crushed bonnet... sighing, he declared it as a write-off.

"Bloody  _hell_... I’ve only had it a month!"

"Don’t fret, Greg," Mycroft purred. "As long as we are all okay, we can acquire you a new car. Don’t worry." He rested a hand on Greg’s shoulder.

"So, let’s call recovery and get out of here... yeah, no way this is moving on its own..." Greg found himself taking charge, feeling responsible for the accident. He looked at his phone and cursed. "No bloody reception – great!"

The other three looked at their phones, one by one - realising there was no mobile phone reception for any of them.

"You have to be kidding me," Mycroft sighed, glaring at his phone, daring it to continue withholding a signal. The phone remained stubborn. "This is 2017…"

"Okay, then – plans anyone?" John had to stop himself laughing at the idiocy of the situation. Now he knew nobody was hurt, he couldn't help but find the whole scenario highly amusing. Mycroft Holmes - he who planned everything down to minute detail - was now stranded in the backside of beyond, and no amount of shouting or stropping was going to help. John grinned again at the thought.

"Well, thanks to the wonders of technology..." Sherlock said, "none of us has access to GPS or Google Maps to find our way to the nearest village. It looks like we should sleep in the car until daylight."

Of course, he said this mainly to wind up Mycroft - then realised that it was probably true. In secret, he was quite pleased that he would get to share the back seat with John.

"You have to be kidding," Mycroft said. "I’ll never walk again. There simply  _must_  be another way."

"We're about an hour's drive from the hotel, Mycroft," John said. "And God knows how far to the nearest town. In this pitch black, we'd be lucky to keep on the road and not end up in a ditch."

Greg was rummaging in the car boot. "Well... I have a couple of tents if it helps? Pop up tents, you know... one shake and they appear intact… got them for the boys. Two-man tents, so should be room enough? It’s not too cold, and I have a couple of blankets in the car - and a couple of tarps that'll do as groundsheets..."

Sherlock’s eyes glinted in amusement.

"Okay - well, so be it. We can push the car off onto the verge away from any further mishaps and pop the tents up that side of the fence. I’m sure Mycroft can okay it with the landowner at first light." Sherlock wasn’t phased in the least by sleeping rough. He had, of course, slept in worse conditions - much worse conditions. The fact that he was here to witness Mycroft having to do the same, was almost the best gift he could have been given.

 

Greg held out the two tents. "So, erm... how’s this going to work then?"

"I’ll sleep with John," Sherlock announced. "I mean... share the tent. We are used to each other’s ways, and, well... John is smaller, so I get more room." He threw a cheeky grin at John and grabbed for the first tent.

 

"Well, Gregory... that means you and I must co-habit for this evening," Mycroft said. "Unless you would prefer me to sleep in the car?" he added uncertainly.

"No… in for a penny, in for a pound," Greg grinned with faux bravado and winked at Mycroft. Mycroft felt warm –  _This is going to be an interesting night…._

 

John made short work of putting the tarp down on the ground, securing it with rocks. He looked up and grinned at Sherlock, who was reclining against the fence post watching him.

"It’s okay, Sherlock. Don’t get your hands dirty. I’ll manage"

"Of course you will. You're very good with your hands."

Sherlock allowed his eyes to settle on John’s for a moment, before turning languidly to look at nothing but the darkness in the distance.

"Cheeky sod," John grinned. Was Sherlock flirting with him? Oh God, this could be a long night if that happened. Already he felt his cock twitch at just the thought of some action. How on earth would he hide an erection in the confines of the tiny tent?

The tent really was pop-up - and child-sized. One shake from John and the tent was in place on the tarp, a couple of pegs and it was secure, shielded on one side by a hedge. He noticed that Greg had placed the other tent about six feet behind theirs. The opening, however, was facing away. Obviously, he wasn’t feeling neighbourly. John noticed with amusement that Mycroft - like his brother - was offering no help at all.

He turned around to tell Sherlock that the tent was done - but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Sherlock?" he said. " _Sherlock_? Where are you?"

"Here, John - inside this impossibly small tent. If this is 'two-man', they must be two of your size."

"You cheeky git!" John bent down to peer inside. "You have to be kidding, Sherlock. No way are you sleeping corner-to-corner. Unless you want me sleeping on top of you, you better work out how to fold your legs in."

Sherlock grinned. "Hmm… maybe I'll stay just like this."

John turned away, blushing.  _It was going to be a long night_. "I’m going for a pee," he said. He wondered if he could get away with a secretive wank in the bushes.

 

Greg made short work of the tent he and Mycroft would share. They were really meant for very light camping - a sleepover in a back garden, no more. "Beggars can’t be choosers," he thought. Then, lowering himself to the ground, he went inside on hands and knees to work out sleeping positions.

"Mycroft - I reckon we should put this blanket underneath us. It’ll soften things a tad, then we can use our coats as blankets."

Greg was a little nervous about the sleeping arrangements. He knew of course that Holmes brothers grew up surrounded by the finer things in life, and while he knew Sherlock didn’t give a damn where he laid his head, he doubted this was going to be a comfortable night for Mycroft.

"Now, which side do you want to sleep?" Greg asked, looking over his right shoulder. As a fully-grown man on his hands and knees in the tent, he realised this really was a small space.

"Oomph - oh, sorry Gregory! I didn’t realise you were in that position!" Mycroft had come into the tent on hands and knees and smacked into Greg’s arse  - with his face.

"Erm, Christ - sorry… ‘ere, let me move over…"

Greg was embarrassed - but then, as he looked back over his shoulder, he noticed that the other man didn’t seem in the least bit worried.

"Don’t worry," Mycroft said. "Let me just come beside you."

He caught Greg’s blushing face, realising there really was more than one way he could take that comment.

 _"Ugh, shit... Christ! Owww. Oops_!"

The two men grumbled as they moved and shimmied, limbs and torsos bumping and twisting until the two were in a relatively horizontal position, side by side.

Greg wanted to laugh. He hadn’t felt like a schoolboy in decades, but right now? He felt like he was sixteen, about to get nicked by the local bobby for disorderly behaviour. He then caught sight of Mycroft’s face. Mycroft was watching him, scrutinizing him.

The air thickened momentarily - then Mycroft chuckled. It set Greg off past the point of no return. It was an age since Greg had let his hair down. Ex-wife problems, custody issues as well as the hassles with the job - it didn’t give him much time to have a good belly laugh. His self-consciousness evaporated, letting it all out.

Mycroft’s soft chuckle stuttered for a moment. As he saw the tears rolling down Greg’s face, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. It had been years since he'd laughed properly if he  _ever_  had - and right now, he couldn’t have stopped if his life depended on it.

The two men laughed until they were holding their sides, struggling for breath. As the laughter subsided, they were left panting and looking at each other, the stillness growing exponentially, heavier and heavier, a force pushing them together - two magnets attracting. The gentle breeze rustled the nylon fabric of the tent. Greg imagined he could hear the grass whispering in the darkness.

"Mycroft…" Greg started to speak, fracturing the quiet within the confines of the tent. He then realised he was caught up in a moment of uncertainty. This situation was very familiar to him - but not with a man.

He’d had a few experiences with blokes over the years... a blow job here and there. A couple of necking sessions. But they were usually drunken antics. He knew that he was, on several levels, attracted to men - he'd just had never pursued a romantic relationship with a guy. Now he was confused.

If Mycroft had been a woman, he'd have leaned in for a kiss - gauged reaction, then let nature take its course. But this was bloody Mycroft Holmes.  _The government!_

 

"Gregory…" Mycroft murmured, not sure where to take this.

For goodness's sake, he was interested in Greg. He had been since he'd first met him many years before as a copper - not that Greg probably remembered, and at their recent dinner, he was positive that there had been lots of chemistry.

But he had a reputation to uphold. He had to be terribly careful not to dally with the wrong person. He knew that kiss-and-tell stories could ruin a career - but in his case,  _war_  could literally break out. Therefore, he only ever had sex with high-class male prostitutes. He was always incognito and, as he wasn’t in the public eye, he had never been compromised.

But  _Greg_  - well, he felt sure he could count on Greg’s discretion. He knew that Greg wanted him, at least for a round of sex.

But here?  _Now_?

 

The two men were frozen in place. If there had been a clock on the wall of the tent, it would have been ticking very slowly.

Suddenly Greg jolted, as a cramp hit his calf.

"Bugger! Shit..." he cried, as he reached down to massage his knotted calf muscle. He looked at Mycroft, who simply burst out laughing again. Greg pushed at his shoulder with his free arm. "Arse. Yep, you are an arse..." Then, he started laughing, too.

"Gregory," Mycroft said slowly, lightly - it was almost a whisper. "Gregory, we find ourselves in this ridiculous situation... I will probably die in the night of cold, and I will be black and blue from the hard ground... and yet… I find that all I can think of is..."

He realised he'd been getting closer and closer to Greg as he spoke. Now he was barely inches away.

"I need to kiss you," he murmured.

"Yes..." Greg closed the gap. Their lips touched, tentatively at first - then as their mouths found a rhythm, tongues meshed, teeth clashed, and coordination was lost to passion. All thoughts of the world outside the tent were forgotten.

 

 

 

 

John, down on hands and knees, looked into the tent. He smirked at Sherlock’s glowering face. Sherlock was now lying with his head touching the top of the tent, his knees slightly bent, and his toes still only a few inches from the gable end.

"See... you can be considerate when you want to," John chuckled, eased his way into the tent and lay perfectly flat in the space provided.

"You're being ridiculous," Sherlock said. "Look at me. I'm folded in half in this space, and you don’t even need all of the room you have allocated yourself."

Sherlock glared at John as he spoke into the darkness, wondering if John could detect the hint of a smile playing at his mouth.

Deciding to play the game, John faux-grumbled in response.

"Okay, I’ll tell you what, if you are going to cause such a fuss, ... you wriggle into a position that’s good for you, and I’ll sort of work around the space leftover. How's that?"

Sherlock moved deftly, curling his body into a reverse C-shape. It allowed him to unfurl his legs into the corner of the tent, while still allowing John some usable space in front of him.

John eased into the leftover space, his breath quickening as he worked out the logistics that would create him less embarrassment. If he lay toward Sherlock, it would mean their heads would be almost touching face to face, though there would be space between their bodies.

If he faced away from Sherlock, he realised that he was giving into the intimacy of becoming the smaller spoon in the tiny space, but at least his misbehaving cock would be facing away.

He sighed and curled onto his right side, facing away from Sherlock - but feeling every micro movement that Sherlock made, every breath that he exhaled.

" _Oh… God, yeah..."_

John and Sherlock simultaneously stiffened.

"What the hell?" At once, they both realised what they were hearing.

John covered his mouth with his hand. Between bouts of laughter, he said, "Is that...? Is that  _really_  Mycroft and Greg?"

Sherlock had gone still. He'd always put up a front of hating Mycroft. He wasn’t sure when it happened, but at some point, his constant snide comments to Mycroft became a normal way of communicating. Deep down, however, Sherlock felt nothing but respect and awe for his elder brother. He knew that his brother had taken on mother and father role for him, and had taught him so much - while he wouldn’t admit it openly. Knowing that Mycroft was happy, at least at this moment, made his heart lurch.

" _Sshh… oh, Greg…"_

More mumbles and half-subdued sentences drifted across the small space between the two tents.

John had stopped laughing. He'd felt Sherlock tense and didn’t know which way to proceed. He knew his own sibling could be a real arse, but if anyone was to ridicule her, he'd be furious. Instead, he tried to relax, willing his brain to shut down and let him sleep.

 

"Nnghh - … ohhh, God… yeah..."

 

John realised he was in trouble. It wasn’t that he was turned on by the thought of Greg and Mycroft having sex - but all day his cock had been making its presence known. With no relief and no escape from the noises of sex coming from so close, his cock decided enough was enough.

Sherlock was desperate for John to be comfortable. Even more, he wished it was he and John making those noises - but he didn’t want to scare John off him now, even if he was almost sure that the feelings would be reciprocated. He allowed himself to relax into John, willing him to be okay.

"Goodnight, John..."

"Erm… goodnight?" John stuttered.

He tried desperately to slow his heart rate down and ease his rapid respirations. He leant into Sherlock, allowing himself that comfort when…

" _Oh, fuck - yeah, yeah… please… yes - do it..."_

 

The voice of Greg punched the night air like a meteor hitting the atmosphere. Sherlock groaned in dismay.

As Sherlock groaned, John was momentarily confused. Fighting hard to keep hold of his disobedient body, he realised suddenly why Sherlock had groaned in dismay. John felt the erection, pressing into his upper thighs, just below the cleft of his arse. The way that Sherlock had curled around him, and the way John had relaxed into him, that along with the pungent pheromones that must be flooding a radius of several miles, Sherlock hadn’t stood a chance.

Both John and Sherlock stilled - Sherlock now fully aware that John could feel how aroused he had become. John was unsure how to proceed - he'd been rebuffed in the past.

 _Oh, fuck it…_ John thought.

He reached back gingerly searching for Sherlock’s hand, which he found resting on his bed mate’s thigh. Ignoring Sherlock’s intake of breath, he took Sherlock’s hand and placed it on his bulging trousers.

"Must be something in the air," he muttered.

Sherlock moaned a sigh of pleasure and relief into the nape of John's neck, allowing the feel of John's cock to become familiar under his hand.

"John…"

John struggled to turn over. As he finally faced Sherlock and caught the look in his eyes, his heart melted. Sherlock wore a look of complete enchantment. They leant into each other, softly taking their time - lips parting, teeth gently nipping, tongues searching.

"Sherlock... at last… you are so lovely..."

John could hardly get the words out before Sherlock pressed in again with his mouth, grasping John's hips as they deepened the kiss.

 

Mycroft and Greg had shown little restraint - both dominant men in their field of work used, to getting what they wanted. They had leapt into the moment. Greg had made short work of getting Mycroft out of his shirt and worked quickly to release his button and zipper, pushing the expensive fabric down Mycroft’s thighs until it pooled around his ankles. Mycroft had shown even less patience - literally pulling Greg's shirt apart, scattering buttons across the interior of the tent.

"Oh, Gregory… I want you. You are so beautiful."

Greg pushed slightly away from Mycroft to get his trousers off.

"Tell me…" Mycroft murmured. "Do you want this? Do you want me to touch you?"

"Oh God - yeah," Greg gasped, oblivious to anyone outside the cocoon of their tent.

"Shhh…. oh Greg, you’re so  _hard_... I have imagined this for an age..."

Mycroft leant in closing his mouth over a rosy pink nipple, nipping sharply, before salving it with a languorous lick of his tongue. Greg panted, as he tried to find enough room to climb astride Mycroft, the confining space seemed to be shrinking around them.

“Mycroft…… Can I suck you?” Greg had now eased himself into space between Mycroft’s legs, his own feet pushing the tent walls precariously.

“I’ve no condoms on me, Greg, but I can assure you I have had a clean bill of health for years noooowwww” The last part of the sentence was drawn out in a wail as Greg not bothering to wait for the full explanation took hold of the man’s erect cock, and licked from base to head. This wasn’t a time for taking it slowly and Greg knew he would not last himself, but he needed to make sure Mycroft enjoyed this. It seemed important … _really important_ …

He worshipped the cock, heavy in his hand and against his tongue with all the attention he could muster. Interspersing long languid licks with gentle sucking motions and the odd gentle nip at the frenulum which sent Mycroft wild.

“Gregory, stop…. I don’t want to come just yet, let me get at you…. “

Mycroft pulled his legs in, then wriggled to a kneeling position. His head brushing the top of the tent. As he lent in to pull Greg down he somehow pushed the walls of the tent till the whole structure slipped sideways….. Greg laughed, but Mycroft sure the whole thing wasn’t going to tumble down around them Pushed Greg to the ground and laid alongside him again.

“I want to come together…” Mycroft whispered as he pressed his hips close to Greg’s and took both their cocks in his long slender fingers. His own Cock was still wet from Greg’s mouth but he licked his other hand to add some lubrication… He took possession of Greg’s mouth with his own, kissing with an intensity that took Greg’s breath away, and started to move their cocks together. The feeling of skin sliding on skin was sublime.

“Greg moaned hoarsely. Fuck, fuck fuck…. Oh God Mycroft, you are good at this…..”

Greg manoeuvred his hand between them and somehow managed to access Mycroft’s balls which he caressed gently….

“Oh Gregory… Gregory, I am going to come….”

“Yes Mycroft, come for me!”

The two men came seconds apart, falling against each other. The… combined heat from their naked skin dissipating quickly into the cool air of the tent. Greg shivered. Mmm… Gregory, you are cold… Greg used his ruined shirt to wipe as much of their bodies as he could…

Uncertainly he laid back down….

“Gregory, let me hold you? I am tired, in need of sleep, will you do me the honour of staying close?”

The two men, curled up together, ignoring the fact that the wall of the tent had now become the floor …. They were just drifting off….

 

“John… Johhhnnnnn… more.. please…”

Mycroft stiffened then chuckled again… “hmm seems those two have finally worked out they like each other!” Greg grinned into the side of his neck, and with that, the two men slept.

 

As John and Sherlock finally gave into the kiss, it was like a veil had been lifted. Both could now observe each other and each other’s actions without short sight.

“Sherlock, tell me, tell me you want me, tell me you want me to touch you?”

Sherlocks’ eyes were glazed. This time, not from being confined to his mind palace but by the wonder that he could see clearly for the first time in years.

 “John, John I, I do want you to touch me… Want you to feel me… but it’s been so long.“

“Oh God Sherlock, I want you so badly. We don’t have to rush anything; nothing major. But Jesus if we don’t get each other off, then I think that there will be some sort of meltdown in here.”

John stroked over the fly of Sherlock’s trousers, the expensive wool blend stretched to its limit by Sherlock’s cock.

“Oh God John… Johhhnnnnn… more … please.”

John worked at the button and lowered the zip, easing the fabric down over Sherlock’s hips, his eyes remaining on Sherlock’s throughout…  _Oh God, this is real, at last_ … John’s head was spinning, the euphoria from the champagne replaced by that of lust… He lowered his head to Sherlock’s groin and breathed in scent the man below, the musky male sex, with a hint of sweat,  _Jesus he smells good_.

Sherlock’s cock was straining at his cotton boxers, the head trying to escape the waistband. John used the tip of his tongue on the exposed glans and Sherlock roared… “John… Oh God John…”

John eased the boxers down inch by inch revealing the length of Sherlock’s magnificent shaft, hard and soft, long slightly thinner than his own, heavily veined perfection sprung forward towards John’s face. Taking the base of Sherlock’s cock to steady it, he licked one stripe from balls to glans. Repeating over and over till his tongue tingled and Sherlock was groaning, panting loudly…

“Sherlock, you are beautiful, I have dreamed about this so many times.”

 He bent down further lick at Sherlock’s balls, massaging them through the fuzzy pubes covering Sherlock’s sack.

 

Sherlock thought his brain might short circuit at any moment, the feeling of Johns rough tongue on his cock, on his balls, the cool of the night fighting with the heat coming off his cock. Jesus, why had he waited so long, how could he have doubted this perfection, this was John, his John…. “Johnnnnnnn Oh God John…. “

John was now wanking his cock in firm strokes, his remaining hand had worked under Sherlock's shirt and tweaked at his nipple. Each upstroke of the cock, ended in Johns' mouth corresponding with a painful tweak of a nipple, pain that was drowned out by the next thrust of his cock…

“John, John…. I will come… it’s been too long, I won’t be able to hold on…“ Sherlock gasped, desperate to regain some control.

“I want you to come for me, Sherlock, I want you to come, I want to taste you, to feel you as you come – let it go…..”

Sherlock gave up his body and mind to the surge of hormones which tipped him over into an abyss of light and roaring noise which filled his head. Heat and static firing from his skin as his orgasm moved from deep in his belly, and balls out through his cock in a stream of come, spurt after spurt, lost in sensation.

As Sherlock orgasmed. John took Sherlock’s cock, deep into his mouth… swallowed down much of the white sticky come… the musky bittersweet taste made his cock twitch uncontrollably as it pressed against the confines of his own trousers…

 

As Sherlock crashed on his back, John pulled at his trousers, removing them and his pants in one. He knelt astride Sherlock, taking his long thick cock in his left hand.

John grinned gently swiping his heavy erection across Sherlock's gaping mouth… I have to see to this, he whispered, watch me?

Sherlock, licked the cock as it was moved past his mouth a momentary teasing taste…. And then John started to wank…

Watching John has he worked his cock with precision and finesse, Sherlock watched, absorbed, watching every micro emotion, locking away the information for future use.

“John, your cock, God you are beautiful… Come on me? Let me feel you…”

“Where Sherlock? Your fucking suit.. still on… where, oh shit….”

“On my face, my mouth… Oh John, come for me”

John was panting hard, heart racing… he looked down into the depths of those gorgeous eyes almost black with lust…. With a shout, he could feel his orgasm… “Sherlock? Are you sure….?”

With the nod affirmation, John let go, he came, stripe after stripe painted across Sherlock’s face mouth and Jaw…. The aftershocks racked through his body as he watched Sherlock's tongue, flit across his lips. Enthusiastically taking in the semen he found in its path… “Oh Jesus, John I am tasting you!” Sherlock seemed genuinely awed by the experience, and John’s heart swelled at the sight.

John laughed sheepishly, then shrugged his shoulders and leant down to kiss the man, tasting himself on the man’s lips, his tongue….

John reached over for Sherlock’s pants… Sorry about this, but there is nothing else to wipe your face with! He gingerly wiped away the remaining semen from Sherlock's face, paying attention to the hairline, and rubbing at the soft curls there to free the sticky mess.

Sherlock looked at John, a mixture of shock and wonderment…. “Well, John – That happened…”

The two men collapsed against each other laughing…

“Sherlock? Can we do this again? Later when there is more room, when it’s not freezing, when I can… I want to fuck you… will you…”

“God, John, yes...” Sherlock interrupted. “I want to feel you inside me. I want that. Very much.”

With that, the two men collapsed together and fell deeply asleep.

 

As the sun began to rise, and the birdsong began to gain muster, the four men started to stir…

“Mycroft leant into Greg. Hello you! I fear we might have been a little noisy last night, are you ok?”

Greg chuckled. Mmmm, “I would be even better if you tell me that this isn’t a one off!”

Mycroft looked at Greg, a beat skipping in his heart… “I would, I would very like to do this again soon … dinner tonight?

You don’t mess around, do you? Greg smiled and leant in for another slow kiss.

 

A little while later, Sherlock unzipped the tent, crawling out on all fours with John slowly behind they rose together before stretching in the morning heat. They looked at each other dishevelled and burst out laughing, then as both looked over to the other tent they stopped short.

“What the hell?” John bent double laughing at the sight of the little tent tipped on its side, movement inside, as Mycroft and Greg, tried to right the tent to exit. Mycroft appeared first, head and shoulders appeared. When he caught sight of John and Sherlock watching he blushed... He extracted himself from the small place, unfolding his long limbs and stretching. Next came Greg who had his jacket on but his shirt was nowhere to be seen. The red of his face matched that of the tent he had just emerged from.

“Morning brother dear – John, it seems it was an eventful night for us all. I trust that what happened in this field will stay in this field?”

The four men looked at each other, no one sure of what to say,

“Sir – Erm, are you ready to leave?” A familiar voice called from behind the hedge.

“Anthea? Anthea? What the hell? – How did you find us?” Mycroft wasn’t sure whether he was more embarrassed at the fact he had got stranded or that his assistant had caught him sloping out of a tent with Lestrade.

“Well, sir, when you didn’t turn up, I had DI Lestrade’s car tracked. Remember the tracker you had fitted? I got here about 3 am but … well, I didn’t feel it was my place to intrude.” Greg, looked up at her when she mentioned the car tracker! He looked at Mycroft’s blushing face. “Hmm, you owe me an apology,” Greg said. “After dinner, this evening maybe?” Mycroft nodded slowly, trying, desperately trying not to allow himself to get aroused.

Mycroft turned to Anthea, “I presume that I can, of course, rely on your usual discretion?”

“Don’t worry Sir, I heard nothing?” she said as she showed him her I-pod, “I had my noise cancelling headphones with me! Now, are you ready to leave?”

The four men climbed into the car, all wondering where the next step of this journey would take them.

 

 


End file.
